The Battle of Stamford Bridge
by thistleblue
Summary: A relatively young Norway meets the English army in battle at Stamford Bridge, and things go poorly. Denmark's there, too.


Sometimes Norway forgot how cold it was on the coasts of England. There was a bitter wind that whistled through the strange rocky shores, and a bite in the air that stung his ears. He shivered, even beneath his layers of wool and leather, and pulled the neck of his cape close against his cheeks.

His own home was no warmer, of course, but the Norwegian coldness was not unkind in the same way. He knew every bare, frost-caked cliff and every gust of wind blowing down from the North, and the familiarity took the sharpness from even the harshest weather. Not so in England – he hadn't grown up here, he did not recognize the land, and he knew that his party was unwelcome here.

"Don't know what your plan is, kid," one of the sailors said, fixing one eye upon him. The other one was dead in its socket, with an ugly, twisting scar on the skin around it. "You know you got no business here."

Norway's gaze locked with the sailor's. The man was huge, and Norway didn't like how far he had to tilt his head back to see his face. But that was how men looked at each other: eye-to-eye. "I'm not a little kid," he said, and his fingers ran along the hilt of his sword. "I could fight better than any of you."

The sailor laughed. "Big words!" he said, and clucked his tongue. "The English would spit you like a piglet, little boy." The color rose in Norway's face, but the sailor turned away from him before he could respond. Norway wished that he could run after him and prove that he was a fighter, with a thousand years practice with his fists and a few hundred with his sword, but there wasn't any point. He swore under his breath and kicked at the frozen, yellow grass that grew between the rocks.

"It's okay, your king is an asshole too," Denmark said, coming up behind Norway with a wide grin on his face. This was really an invitation to brawl, right then and there, but Norway's antipathies were elsewhere.

"Yeah, well, yours is a gimp," he said, without looking at Denmark. He could still see the crown of the sailor's head in the crowd of men. "I'm sick of this. I wish the English would get here sooner."

"Sweyn's a great king," Denmark said. He sounded hurt, which Norway felt was a little backward, considering he had brought up the subject.

Norway shut his eyes and exhaled, his breath smoky in the cold September air. "Harald started getting power when he was fifteen. Did you know that?" he said, "Just fifteen and he was a hero." Norway thought that he, Denmark and Sweden looked about that age, if one was being generous.

"Sure," Denmark said, with a lazy shrug of his shoulders, "Might have been different, though, if he'd had a girly curl in his hair or something." This time, Norway did jump on him.

A few blows later, Denmark's left eye was swelling and Norway's lip was bleeding down his chin, although they were both in much higher spirits.

"That all?" Denmark said, laughing and rubbing a developing bruise on his shoulder, "You fight like an Englishman, Noregr!"

Norway touched his cut lip and wiped the blood off in the grass, grinning in spite of himself. "Yeah? You want to say that again, Danmǫrk?"

"You fight like an Englishman!" Denmark said, and Norway laughed and kicked him from where he was sitting.

"You know what you'd be doing back home?" asked Norway after a moment. "Sitting in court, listening to your king go on and on."

"And miss out on sitting on my ass here at Yorkshire?" Denmark held his hand to his heart in mock distress. "Thank Odin you made me come, Noregr!"

Norway glared at him. "I _didn't_ make you come," he said. "And this is important."

"Yeah, for you, maybe."

"For everyone!" Norway's hair was in his eyes – it was always in his eyes – and he pulled at it impatiently. "If Harald is king-" Denmark cut him off with a rude noise.

"I'm going to punch you if you do that again," Norway said. Denmark's face brightened.

"Really?" he asked. Norway growled and looked away.

He saw King Harald between knots of burly warriors, and watched him with a swelling feeling inside of him. He and Denmark and Sweden always loved their kings, of course, but there were only a few kings that Norway had loved with the fierce pride he felt for Harald Hardrada. He wasn't always a kind king, but he was strong, and brave almost to the point of madness.

Norway had first met him when he was only a young man, and even then he had liked him. Harald had talked to him for a few minutes, and Norway had liked him enough to tell him the truth, that he was the spirit of Norway. Harald had laughed and clapped him on the back, and said, "So am I, boy!"

He hadn't believed Norway, of course, but it was one of the better ways to be disbelieved.

Now Harald was older, and thick in the waist, but he still looked as strong and lively as a bear. He was laughing around the rim of his tankard of ale, his great shoulders shaking beneath the fur of his cape. Norway wondered if the king would believe him now, if he walked over and told him again.

"Why do you do that?" Norway heard Denmark saying, when he began to listen again. "What the hell do you think about for so long?"

"Fairies," Norway said, shifting his sword to his side.

"Fairies?"

"Yeah," Norway said. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the cloudy sky. "Every time."

Denmark watched him for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed. "Is this your way of saying you want to go get drunk?" he asked, finally.

"Absolutely."

—

King Harald ordered the sailors to move the next day, away from the coast. Godwinson and his men weren't due to arrive for a few more days, but it never hurt to be ready, Harald had said, and laughed. If there was a joke, Norway didn't understand it, but his head was still buzzing from the night before.

The rendezvous point was only a few hours' walk from the coast, and they reached it by early afternoon. It was a pretty place, a wooden bridge stretching over a wide, blue river. It was nothing like the dim, hard grayness of the coast.

Norway's head hurt. Denmark was talking too loudly in his ear, but Norway wasn't about to admit that he was still aching from a few tankards of ale. He rubbed the side of his head and looked around, his eyes unfocused.

The sailors had left their heaviest armor back on the coast, and some had stripped out of the lighter, leather armor to swim in the river. Harald had sent away many of his men to keep the English hostages in a more secure location, and there was a strange new quietness with the smaller group.

It was a happy scene, but there was a vague uneasiness inside of Norway, like a blunt blade pressing against his gut. It was hard to focus on through the buzzing. Norway shook his head, feeling nauseous.

"I wonder if we should have brought the metal armor," he said to Denmark. He thought his voice sounded high and uneven.

"What armor?" Denmark said, casting him a strange look. "You didn't bring any metal armor on the boat, Noregr."

"Not me," Norway said, "Everyone." He rubbed his head again, feeling as if he had forgotten something. "That would have been better. I think that would have been better."

The sun was bright in the sky, and Norway was beginning to miss the grey clouds of yesterday. The light seemed to stream from everywhere, and it felt like a thousand sharp knives in his brain. He shut his eyes and tried to think.

There was a shout that only partly made it through Norway's buzzing ears, and dimly he noticed the splashing in the river stop. Then there was a rising clamor, and the sound of pounding feet, and Denmark grabbed Norway by the shoulders and shook him. Norway realized that Denmark had been talking to him.

"Noregr, what the hell are you doing? Open your eyes!" Denmark yelled, and Norway opened his eyes. There was still too much light, but he could see his sailors scrambling along the banks of the river, swearing and trying to pull their armor on. It must have been difficult to get the leather over their wet skin. It must have been uncomfortable. Norway blinked.

"Look that way, the English are coming!" Denmark said, "Sure as shit not coming to trade for hostages, either. See- they're all decked out for battle, look. You can see the sun shining off all that metal." Norway didn't look.

"I know," he said, and again his voice sounded strange, as if it were coming from someone else. "They're coming to attack. I know that." Norway reached for his sword, his fingers fumbling with the sheath. He wrapped them around the sheath, and then they were steady. He exhaled.

Denmark already had his ax out and was swinging it along the ground in low arcs. In spite of their disrupted plans, there was a growing smile on his face as he bounced on the balls of his feet, and he reminded Norway of Hrungnir's clay giant, built to come alive in battle. Norway could sense the same bright, bloodthirsty energy rising within himself, but it felt strange and sick today. It was more than alcohol.

Norway pulled his sword out and steeled himself. He planted his feet in the grass and locked his hands around the hilt of his sword. Now, finally, he looked over the hill at the English.

There were thousands of them, glimmering in their metal armor and polished helms. A wide swath of trampled grass marked their progress, and Norway thought it made it look as if a sea had parted behind them. There was still a little time to retreat, but Norway knew that Harald Hardrada would not run. It wasn't his way.

Norway took a deep breath. Perhaps they would win. There was no reason they had to lose.

The English broke over the crest of the hill and came down to the bridge in a great, terrible wave. Harald was still organizing his men, hurried but confident. Even as Norway and Denmark ran to join the growing crowd, Norway knew there would not be enough time to prepare. Godwinson and his men were coming too fast.

The English soldiers met the bridge in minutes, and the sound of battle cries and clashing metal filled the air like a sudden explosion. Still Harald was collecting the troops, and somehow, miraculously, the English soldiers did not come cutting through his men.

"What's happening?" Norway asked Denmark.

"Who gives a shit?" he said, a wild grin on his face. "You think that little twerp is there?" Norway craned his head back. Between the jostling shoulders of the bigger warriors, he could just make out a huge shape at their end of the bridge and knocking the English back. The figure twisted to swing his sword again, and for a moment Norway saw his one dead eye in profile.

"Huh," he breathed. There was the pride again, a warm, light feeling in his chest, and a sudden surge of hope. Norway rubbed the pommel of his sword with his thumb, and watched as the strings of Norwegian soldiers shifted around him.

The reprieve only lasted for a few minutes, but when the one-eyed sailor finally fell and the English rushed through, Harald's troops are were ready as they could possibly be, out-numbered and poorly equipped.

"If we can hold out until the rest of the army comes," Norway said to Denmark, "maybe we'll win." If Denmark said anything back, it was lost in the roar of metal and stamping feet as the English came upon them.

Norway had fought many, many times before, and he slipped into the rhythm of battle without a thought. Even with the sick feeling still knotted within his stomach, it was what he was born for.

Time seemed to slow and lurch forward as he fought, and it was difficult to say with certainty how quickly anything had happened. Norway knew that a shield had hit the side of his head, leaving a mottled purple bruise and a trickling cut, and that he had lost Denmark at some point, and that he had killed at least one English soldier. He also knew that his warriors and soldiers were dying around him, faster than the English died. They had only their leather, not the metal plates and swinging chain mail of the English, and Norway felt their vulnerability keenly.

Increasingly Norway understood that they would not win, that reinforcements would not come in time, and if they did they would only be slaughtered too. He understood this in a visceral way, right down to his gut. It didn't change anything; he still needed to bear down on the English with the whole of his will and fight until he was soaked with blood, but he wished that it wouldn't end this way. It was too bad.

There was a sudden, terrible pain in his chest, and Norway knew what that meant, too. Blackness exploded in front of his eyes, and Norway staggered, and then fell.

—

The sky was dark when Norway woke up. It was hard to say how long he had been unconscious; the death of a king hurt, but it didn't knock anyone out for more than half an hour. This must have been at least four or five hours, if not more. Norway's clothing was stiff with cold, dried blood, and there was a tree root poking into his side.

He coughed and rolled over, off of the root, and thought about going back to sleep again. It seemed like there was a lot to think about, but he couldn't quite recognize any of it. His thoughts sat hidden and just out of reach, like crows perched in dark rafters.

"You!" Norway groaned. Rolling over had been a mistake. "You asshole!"

Norway cracked open one eyelid to see Denmark crouched in front of him, looking angry. "Who the hell stays out that long?"

Norway sat up unsteadily and rubbed his neck. His fingers brushed a thin, scabby wound, and he shivered. "I don't know," he said. "No one."

"You jerk, Noregr," Denmark said. He dropped back to sit with his legs out in front of him. "You should have woken up ages ago."

Norway didn't answer. He felt the outlines of the wound. "Is there a cut on my neck?"

"No," Denmark said, and Norway pulled his hand away from his neck with a wave of revulsion. "But there is a big boot-shaped bruise on your arm, 'cause you _passed out_ in the middle of a-"

"Shut up!" Norway snapped, "I remember!"

He took a deep breath and rubbed his cheek. He felt sick again. "Where is everyone?"

"Mostly captured, I guess," Denmark said. There was a strange expression on his face.

"I mean the bodies," Norway said, "Where are the bodies?"

Denmark blanched. "Uh, there's a lot of 'em, Noregr."

"I know," Norway said, "Where are they?" He stood up, a little unsteady on his feet. His body ached all over, but it was hard to think about it.

"Little bit east of here," Denmark said, not quite making eye contact. Norway nodded and started to walk.

It only took a few minutes to reach the battlefield, although Norway was not walking quickly. He stopped when he reached the first body, a sailor with his belly slit open. The leather of his armor was in shreds. Norway studied the man for a moment, and then looked up, across the little riverside clearing.

Denmark hadn't been lying. If he hadn't been at the battle, Norway would have thought that the place was a body dump; the corpses were so closely spaced. The soldiers lay in piles, one on top of the other, and the river was still pink with their blood.

Almost none of them were dressed in metal armor.

Denmark shuffled up beside him, looking deeply uncomfortable. "It didn't go very well," he said, rubbing his ear.

Norway didn't respond. He scanned the mounds of bodies, a pensive expression on his face. "I can't see King Harald."

"The English took him back with them, I think," Denmark said, with an awkward shrug, "Sorry, Noregr." He scuffed the grass with his boot. "I gave Arthur a black eye for you."

Across the mounds of bodies, Stamford Bridge was clotted with dead soldiers, mostly Norwegian. Norway could still see the corpse of the huge, one-eyed sailor, slumped against the rails of the bridge, although again it was obscured by bodies.

_"The English would spit you like a piglet, little boy."_

He almost could have laughed.


End file.
